Yet he strongly suspected she was not for him. For Fate, in the shape of the boy — Seddon's boy—had erected a barrier he could not destroy. It had aroused Seddon's malignant enmity, it had made thoughts of an agreement between him and Seddon impossible. And he also strongly suspected that the girl would be influenced by her father's attitude toward him, even if Seddon said no word to her about him.
For, though Seddon might not talk, he would inevitably betray his hatred with glances or gestures, or by inference or innuendo or abstract reference. There were many ways he could show her that he did not like Rand.
And so Rand entertained no false expectations. That was why, when he looked at the girl now, his gaze was direct and steady. Without the conviction that he could never attain his desires he could not have met her gaze with equanimity, for the passion in his heart would have betrayed him. A grim humor kept him from betraying himself now; it kept his face from reddening, as it must have reddened if there were no obstacles and he had been able to stand before her in the role of suitor.
The humor was visible in the slight smile that wreathed his lips as he looked at her; the grin grew when he glanced around the room and saw that Seddon had deserted them. At that instant Seddon was standing on the front porch gazing ferociously into the gulf of distance, his soul warped with the bitterness of the rage that had seized him.
Rand's gaze returned to the girl; his voice was gentle and drawling:
"Why, your dad ain't here any more!"
She turned swiftly. "I hadn't noticed!" she said. "That is hardly polite, is it? Do you want to talk with him?"
"Don't bother," he smiled, "we had finished our talk." He opened the outside door and stood on the threshold, looking back at her, his eyes gleaming with an emotion that she could not fathom.
"Your daddy ain't a heap well," he said. "He was tellin' me, before you come in. It's his heart, I reckon — it's sort of fluttery an' uncertain. At his age a man ought to take a day off once in a while — takin' things easy. He looks sort of excited an' touchy. He's been ridin' too much, mebbe. If I was you I'd kind of hint that he'd ought to hang around the house today—not goin' anywhere. I've told him the same thing, an' when I'm gone you can remind him of it."
An expression of concern leaped into her eyes.
"Do you think it is serious?" she questioned. "Why, I hadn't thought — or noticed. But if you think "
He laughed. "I reckon it ain't serious — not if he's careful. You tell him that, so he won't be forgettin' what I told him."
She was looking closely at him, and she saw a subtle, humorous gleam in his eyes.
"Oh," she said, with a relieved smile, "you are only joking!"
"Sure," he laughed, "that's it." It was a joke, though a grim one. He wanted to spare her, and he felt that by arousing her concern for her father — and thus inducing her to keep him at the ranchhouse — he might prevent the tragedy that was sure to follow if Seddon disregarded his warning. For he meant what he had said to Seddon.
Because of Lucia Morell's warning he knew his own life was threatened; and if Seddon should apprize Compton, Webster, and Kinney of the fact that their intentions were known to him, they would be certain to arrange another trap for him.
His warning to Seddon was no idle one. Beneath the mask of mild gentleness on his face as he looked at the girl was an implacable determination to kill her father should the latter apprize his enemies of his knowledge of their scheme to murder him.
The violent, destroying passions he had inherited from his father were tugging at him as he stood there in the doorway. But the girl saw none of them; they were hidden deep, like a slow fire smoldering in the bowels of the earth, ready to belch forth with the raging fury of a volcano.
She saw only the baffling humor in his eyes, and she decided that between him and her father was some jocose secret, an aspect of which Rand wanted to impress upon her parent through her.
"Very well," she said, her fears at rest; "I shall warn him."
She followed him outside, and when he halted near the door and smiled at her she stood silent and watched him, for she felt he had something more to say to her.
"I reckon — now that you know I ain't what you thought I was — that you won't be afraid to ride over to the Three Bar sometime. It ain't what it was when the Halseys used to live there, but we'll be glad to treat you to the best we've got."
"Then you know I used to visit the Three Bar?"
"Halsey told me." His grin broadened. "There ain't no girls at the Three Bar now; but there's Aunt Betsey an' Uncle Ephraim an' Bud could entertain you right royal. An' if you're still scared of guys with pink hair an' such, why, I'll just mosey into the brush some-wheres where you can't look at me."
"You had no right to permit me to say that!" she declared. "You know it was your fault!"
"Well," he said, "there ain't no harm done."
"Aunt Betsey and Uncle Ephraim and Bud," she said. "They sound good, don't they? They hint of sturdiness and old-fashioned reliability."
"They're all wool an' a yard wide," he stated, his eyes glowing. "My mother's sister an' her husband. They was with me in Durango — after my folks died; an' they've been with me since. Neither of them has got any vicious notions."
"And Bud?"
He regarded her steadily. "Bud is an orphan," he said. "His mother is dead, an' his father didn't feel responsible enough to take care of him. I'm tickled to do it. Bud's a humdinger, ma'am," he added with an enthusiastic leap in his voice; "he's the greatest kid that ever struck this neck of the woods. An' he ain't got no faults — barrin' his cussin'."
"Cussing!" She betrayed her amazement with a blush and a startled look at him. "Do you mean that he curses?"
"Some," he grinned. "I can't coax it out of him. He don't cuss nothin' mean — it's just words that the boys teach him when I ain't around. An' he's so smart that he picks them up, just like a parrot. I'd thrash them out of him — them swear words, I mean — if I thought I could!"
"Oh, don't do that!" she objected. "I'm sure it wouldn't do any good! Why don't you try to shame him! Can't Aunt Betsey do something—or Uncle Ephraim?"
"They've done all they can, I reckon. He just won't listen. I'm a heap scared that if somethin' ain't done he'll turn into a pirate or somethin', ma'am. An' I've thought, since you come home, that mebbe if you'd ride over once in a while you'd be able to teach him better manners. It would sure be a shame to let him grow up to be a cussin', swaggerin' pirate."
"Well, I certainly shall come over!" she declared.
"That's right, ma'am — he'll need you. Why, I reckon right now that he's pretty near hopeless."
"How old is Bud?" Her eyes were wide with interest now, and a certain crafty gleam in Rand's eyes was battling with the elation in them. He concealed both expressions by veiling his eyes with his lashes.
"He's between four and five, ma'am — an' big for his age. If it wasn't for his cussin' he'd be pretty much of a man. I reckon I'll have to salivate some of the boys if they don't stop teachin' him them things!"
"Well," she said determinedly, "it is time something was done!"
"You could cure him if anyone can," he said, glancing covertly at her, his voice heavy with conviction.
"Then you'll take a whirl at him, ma'am?" he asked presently, when she did not comment upon his last statement.
"Of course. It would be a shame to let him continue in that habit!"
"So it would, ma'am."
His voice trailed off to an expressionless, mechanical monotone. She was looking directly at him when he spoke, and she saw that his lips had not moved, and she knew he had spoken almost automatically, hardly knowing what he had been saying.
Startled and